Mr and Mrs Reese
by SG-girl
Summary: 7 Holidays with John Reese, Zoe Morgan, and their daughter. Written for the Irrelevant Gift Exchange on Tumblr.


**1. Easter**

John opens the door and rather than the mad dash for the backyard that he'd been expecting, the only movement is one tiny dark eyebrow rising in perfect mimicry of her mother. Propping the door open with his hip, he gestures towards the freshly cut expanse of grass and says, "I can see four from where I'm standing now. Come on, sweetheart."

"You didn't check." Said with the exasperation only a six year old can portray, Abby Reese puts her Easter basket down on the kitchen floor and crosses her arms over her chest, giving the best intimidating scowl capable when the wearer has dimples and a floppy mass of dark curls.

Behind their daughter, Zoe leans against the counter and gives John a look that seems to indicate this is entirely his fault. With a sigh, John steps into the doorway and looks around the expanse of the backyard, making sure Abby can see his movements, exaggerated in a way he would never do when on assignment. Waiting a few beats, he steps back and gestures to the open door again, smiling at the expectant look he receives.

"No snipers," he says and Abby's smile is just this side of blinding. Her pink basket clips him in the shins as she races out into the backyard, Bear tearing after her like a four-legged security attaché. John smiles.

"This was why her first day of school was so difficult. You were in New Jersey and apparently Mommy doesn't know enough about operational security to check the lines of sight in her classroom," Zoe says, but there's a smile in her voice. John knows he's not in the doghouse when her heels click across the kitchen floor and she wraps her arms around him from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder. Out in the yard, Bear helpfully noses a bright blue Easter egg from under a bush and Abby picks it up, depositing it in her basket.

"Well, picture day for school was no walk in the park either. Apparently, Daddy doesn't know anything about doing hair." John replies as Abby stares up at the orange egg in the lowest crook of the apple tree, visibly debating between messing up her new dress and retrieving the treasure.

"Daddy doesn't know anything about doing hair," Zoe says, her grip tightening on his shoulder as Abby decides and kicks off her shoes. John smiles as one small hand clutches the lowest branch and his daughter begins to climb. As Abby hauls herself up, Bear paces, looking as concerned as a dog is capable of.

"Daddy also has no idea how to get grass stains out of silk, so you better hope she doesn't—" Zoe cuts off as Abby grabs the egg with one hand and drops from the tree, landing damn near daintily on the grass. The way their daughter deposits the egg in her basket can only be described as smugly before she sweeps the whole thing up in one small hand and sashays across the yard, Bear close behind.

"You were saying?" John asks with a little smugness of his own. The smile Zoe gives him is exasperated, but there's affection around the edges and he just pulls her closer.

* * *

**2. 3 Halloween's with Abby**

Abby's first Halloween consists of John trying to get four squirming, chubby limbs into the baby Simba costume that Zoe purchases, all the while his infant daughter blows spit bubbles and babbles happily up at him. Combat training has nothing on trying to maneuver a very energetic diaper clad nine month old into a onesie and John is filled with an odd sense of pride when he's done.

The hood makes Abby cry, but her thick dark hair is a kind of like mane in it's own right, so it all works out in the end. John tucks her into the corner of his arm and dutifully trails Zoe to the Halloween party of a close friend and sometimes client. He nurses the same drink all night and Abby chews on the tail of her costume and hands out drool-filled grins all night long. All in all, he considers it a good night.

"We are not telling your mother about this," John says as he kicks the front door closed behind him, ushering his costumed daughter inside, helping her slip out of her jacket.

"That you brought a gun trick-or-treating or that you almost shot Mr. Sorensen because he popped out at you from behind a tree?" Abigail asks, voice muffled as she tries to crawl head first into the bottom of her candy bag, the wings of her Tinkerbell costume bobbing wildly.

"Either." John says and takes the Butterfingers she blindly offers.

"I want to be Uncle Harold for Halloween," Abby announces at the breakfast table, spoon in one hand, purple tiara sitting snug atop her riotous curls. It's Princess Day—which is Tuesday in the real world—and the day's importance is reflected in her Jasmine t-shirt and pink skirt, her little feet clad in a pair of tiny pink Doc Martens. Zoe arches an eyebrow at John across the table and gets a shrug in return. Princess day isn't necessarily his favorite day of the week even though he's gotten more adept at doing a proper 'princess ponytail'. Hulk day is more up his alley with it's copious amounts of green and Abby growling ferociously as she clings to his left leg while he drags her around the house. On the floor at John's feet, Bear rests his head on his paws, perhaps in shame that he once again has to wear the pink collar.

"Honey, I don't-" Zoe starts to say and Abby's face crumples, her big blue eyes turning liquid in the space of half a second. Zoe bites off the rest of the words, switches tracks in the middle of the sentence. Her opponents would be gob-smacked to see one of the most powerful women in New York taken out at the knees so easily. "Think you have anything in your closet that looks like Uncle Harold's clothes. We'll have to go shopping." Those big eyes clear up instantly as Abby lights up, digging back into her cereal with newfound enthusiasm. John smiles into his coffee and Zoe kicks him under the table in retaliation, earning her an affectionate wink over the rim of his mug.

It's worth it though on Halloween to see Abby in her sweater vest, bowtie, and khakis, holding up her candy bag to the man in the doorway, glasses sliding down her nose.

"Trick or treat, Uncle Harold!"

* * *

**3. Fourth of July**

Abby with a sparkler is a sight to behold. Her white and blue dress flaps merrily as she races around the yard, the firework slowly burning down in her hand. When the stick finally sputters out, Abby whips around, heading straight for Fusco who is ready with a lighter and a new sparkler. John hadn't ever thought he'd see the gruff older detective on one knee, painstakingly lighting a stubborn sparkler while his daughter wiggles in anticipation.

The paper finally catches, burns down and the sparkler catches, showering sparks everywhere. Abby laughs with happiness and takes off across the yard again, yelling for Taylor. Zoe presses closer into John's side and the smile that had once been a chore to enact now spreads easily across John's face.

* * *

**4. New Year**

"She's asleep," Zoe whispers as she tiptoes back out into the living room, heels dangling from one finger. John looks away from the television screen where everyone in Times Square is staring up at the Ball, smiles at his wife in her ridiculously expensive cocktail dress with a tiny gold tiara atop her hair. He holds out an arm, Zoe curling onto the couch beside him, shoes abandoned at their feet. A quick buss of lips turns into something else, deeper, hotter, and he curls a hand around the back of Zoe's head, his fingers twining into her hair. It doesn't take too awful long before she's straddling his lap, their kiss burning bright between them.

Three minutes to midnight, the city sits on the edge of suspense, waiting for the roll over into the next year. John waits with the rest of the eight million citizens of New York, but perhaps with fewer expectations. After all, he's got everything he needs right here, his wife in his arms, his daughter finally- the thought dies at the soft call from the darkened hallway.

"Mommy?" Zoe pulls back with a rueful smile, an expression that quickly melts into affection as she slips off John's lap with one last brush of lips.

"Thought you said she was asleep." He teases as Abby pads into the living room in her penguin pajamas, rubbing little fists against her eyes, feet shuffling over the carpet. Zoe scoops her up and returns to the couch, tucking the little girl between the two of them. Abby sleepily pats John's hand and falls asleep again almost instantly, her dark little head landing on his chest with a soft plop.

"New Year's resolution?" Zoe says, smiling down at Abby then looking up at John, a soft smile on her face.

"I think I'm good." He says, settling Abby more comfortably against him as the crowd on TV works themselves into a frenzy while the clock continues to countdown. "You?" Zoe silently shakes her head, laces their fingers together, leaning in to kiss him softly.

"I'm good," she says.

* * *

**5. Christmas**

Abby bounces on her toes beside John, her patent leather Mary Jane's squeaking with every motion. She's got a grip on his left hand, her hand small in his, her fingernails freshly painted green and red because she'd been unable to choose between the two colors.

The line to see Santa inches forward another foot and Abby squeezes with all her strength, sheer joy on her face as the big man in the red suit gets closer. Personally, John hates the mall. Too many people, not enough cover, poor lines of sight, and far too many video cameras. But Santa is in the mall and Abby loves Santa, therefore John is in the mall too. He's armed and he's been keeping an eye on a group of shoplifting teenagers in the corner, but he's in the mall. He won't tempt fate by noting that nothing has happened yet, but other than that one blonde kid who screamed as his mother had physically dragged him off Santa's lap, nothing had happened. Abby tugs on his arm and he carefully crouches down, making sure to keep an eye out.

"Can I ask Santa for anything?" she asks, blue eyes serious, one hand smoothing down her new Christmas dress, black and red polka dots dancing under her fingertips.

"Well, have you been a good girl this year?" he asks, matching her gravitas with his own. Santa is no laughing matter, he knows.

"I feed Bear my carrots when you're not looking." Abby says, hand twisting in the skirt of her dress, blue eyes skittering away from his. John manages to keep from smiling, but just barely. He's more than a little aware of that little habit, especially since Bear just brings the carrots over to John's chair and drops them at his feet.

"Well, I think Santa can look past that. I hear he's not a very big fan of carrots either." Her eyes light up again and she jumps again, pulling on his arm. The line inches forward again and Abby tows him forward, swinging on his hand. John sweeps his gaze over the shoplifters on the corner and prepares for his toughest mission ever: meeting Santa.

* * *

**6. Thanksgiving**

"How is she?" Joss whispers from the doorway, jacket slung over her arm, concern in the lines of her face. Zoe soothes a hand over Abby's damp curls, the little girl curled up in the middle of their big bed, the throw from the living room snugged around her.

"I think she wore herself out with this last round of puking," Zoe says, tucking in a corner of the blanket a little tighter. Abby's breathing is finally slow and even, not the uneven hitches of air earlier when she'd been throwing up everything she'd eaten for Thanksgiving dinner. Zoe's heart had leaped into her throat when Bear came running into the living room, barking frantically. The next hour had been a combination of crying and puking, Zoe holding her daughter's shuddering form over the bathtub while John hovered in the doorway, looking frustrated at his inability to fix the situation.

"One time, Taylor tried to eat his bodyweight in tomatoes." Joss says, a fond smile on her face. "Trust me, I know exactly how unpleasant the entire situation can be." Zoe smiles as Abby stirs under her hand. John appears behind Joss, concern on his face, and Zoe smiles at him, trying to convey everything being all right with her expression. Bear pushes past the two into the bedroom, puts his paws on the edge of the bed and whines worriedly.

"It's okay, baby," Zoe leans over, pats his study head. "She's okay." Her tone must convey something comforting because his tongue rolls out of his mouth and his tail starts to wag. Under the blanket Abby settles under the watch of her family, a soft little sigh of contentment slipping out.

* * *

**7. Veteran's Day**

Abby salutes clumsily him over waffles, coming dangerously close to putting her syrup-slathered fork into her hair. Amused, John salutes back, takes the cup of coffee that Zoe offers and settles into his usual spot at the breakfast nook.

"What was that for?" he asks, taking a sip of his coffee and fingering a corner of the big green envelope that sits on top of his plate, DADDY spelled out very carefully in purple crayon.

"It's your hero day," she says simply, licking a long string of syrup off her hand. John arches an eyebrow at Zoe who is nursing a cup of coffee by the kitchen sink.

"It's my what?"

"Miss Gavner said today is the day when we celebrate soldiers and that soldiers are heroes. You were a soldier." She says with an expression that suggests he's an idiot for having to ask that. "It's your hero day."

"Is this my card then?" he asks and Abby nods, mouth full of waffles, a smear of syrup on her chin. He pops open the flap of the envelope and pulls out a heavily glittered, crayon decorated folded piece of construction paper, staring at the picture of the stick figure soldier on the front, wearing a dress uniform, medals drawn with careful deliberation and a yellow crayon. Opening the card, his daughter's six-year-old handwriting marches unevenly across the inside of the card.

_Happy Hero Day, Daddy. You'll always be my hero even when I'm old like Uncle Harold._

_Love, Abby_

_P.S.: Can I be your hero?_

He blinks once, warmth blossoming in his chest and looks up at Abby who is still eating her waffles, more syrup dotting her shirt than the actual food itself. She smiles at him, unaware of the emotion coursing through him and salutes again. John carefully puts the card back in the envelope, setting it to the side of his plate.

"So what kind of breakfast does a hero get on Hero Day?" he asks and Abby holds out a forkful of waffle, syrup dripping onto the tabletop. He can't remember a better breakfast.


End file.
